A lonesome October morning
by ButterFish
Summary: While driving to pick up Alfred at the airport, Arthur starts some hot fantasizing. USUK, oneshot.


The sky is dirty grey when Arthur switches on the engine and rolls down the window in his car. It's a frosty morning in the middle of October, and he's expecting a rainsquall to pass by any minute now. When he sticks out his hand through the open window, he can already feel a certain moistness to the air, and he purses his lips and whistles when the first, heavy raindrop falls on his open hand. He jerks it back in again and rolls up the window. It's going to be a long drive.

Alfred has decided to come over for a short visit and an even quicker fuck. He has some papers to deliver, some gossiping to spread and a lust to satisfy. Arthur normally isn't one to work hard for his enjoyments, and it would've been much easier for him to just go online and find some rent boy for the night. But it's been long since he last had Alfred's cock filling up his ass, and to his recollection he did promise to be a faithful boyfriend. Arthur snorts and turns on the radio. Faithfulness is something only youngsters can believe in. When he was with Francis, he didn't even know such kind of relationship existed. The snail-eater would poke his cock into any moist hole he found, and Arthur wouldn't stay up and wait for him if something better passed him by. They never told each other about their escapades, because they had no need to; they weren't sexually restrained by anything but their own moral. Alfred, however, is.

The radio crackles. Arthur slams his hand flat down onto the dashboard two times, and the irritating noise stops and instead a sweet song fills up the small car. Opera. Arthur changes channels until he hits the news. He doesn't listen to it, he just acts as if he does. The rain has started to fall by a greater speed. The unsteady sound of it beating down onto the windscreen makes Arthur knit his brows together, and he takes a stronger hold around the steering wheel and tries to ignore the irritation building up inside of him. Being England, the others expect him to like rain just like he likes tea and biscuits and the Queen. But he hates rain. There's no steady sound to it, you can never know when a rainsquall will start and when it'll stop, and it always visits when you're not prepared. Rain is like Alfred.

Arthur was supposed to spend the weekend finishing a report on the import of meat together with the Food Standards Agency, but because of Alfred's sudden visit, he had to postpone their meeting until next week. Arthur hates feeling as if he has let someone down, but he's sure he would feel even worse saying no to Alfred. In the movies the main character always chooses work over family, and in the end it always turns out that he'd been better off spending time with his beloved rather than his work-desk. Though reality is no movie, Arthur still wants a happy ending, and that's why he's in his car going for a two-hour drive to pick up Alfred at the airport in Gatwick. Supposedly because he truly likes him.

Arthur slips his fingertips down the black wheel and narrows his eyes. He swiftly turns on the wipers as the windshield has started to go blurry with rain. The road is empty, and driving this early in the morning he feels like he's just entered another world. Here he's all alone, left to himself, and he should be allowed to speak up honestly. "I don't like Alfred," he says and slumps back into his seat. He almost feels guilty for saying so, but he has to force himself to keep going. He turns the volume on the radio up to drown the words he's about to say and swallows down the knot of guilt. With the news speaker's shouting out into the car, he feels as if the worry in him has decreased, and he narrows his eyes with a sigh. "I don't like Alfred," he repeats, "I lust for him."

Everyone always goes on about how you should _love_ somebody and _honour_ them and _fucking adore_ them. Why isn't the fucking enough in itself? Arthur loves fucking, he honours fucking and he fucking adores fucking Alfred. Somehow that's never enough. It's got to be done with a heart filled with love and care, and while whispering 'boyfriend' or 'lover' or 'sweetheart' or 'darling'. He doesn't like hearing the three little words while a cock is messing with his rectum. He just wants sex. Is that bad?

Arthur leans forward in his seat and checks the road again. No cars in sight, neither in front nor behind him. He reaches out and switches the channel to the one with the opera concert. Then he leans back in his seat and controls the wheel with one hand while he slams the other down onto his knee. He lets it rest there, since he's not sure what he wants to do with it, but then it slowly starts travelling up his leg, and he quickly checks the side-view mirror. Nothing. No one cares for driving this early on a Saturday morning.

Alfred's got a big cock in the morning. It's as if he spends the whole night preparing himself for a quickie during sunrise. When he sleeps over, Arthur is always awakened by the fat meat poking his leg or his ass or his hole, depending on how awake Alfred is himself. It's a misunderstanding that Arthur's the light sleeper and that Alfred always overhears the alarm. If the guy didn't start messing around with his body, Arthur could keep sleeping until noon. Maybe he's just turning old. He goes to bed early and gets up late, while Alfred goes to bed late and gets up early, always as right as rain.

Arthur groans. There he goes again. Rain. It's lashing down outside. The raindrops are so big that one could be fooled to believe that they could cut right through the bonnet and straight down the motor. Just to be sure nothing is going on, Arthur turns the speed of the wipers up. They quickly move up and then slam back down across the window, leaving his view clear for a second. The bonnet is alright. Arthur sighs and leans back, then he slaps his crotch with his free hand. He tells himself that he aimed for his thigh but just missed it, but when he stops slapping, his hand rests upon the bulge that has started to form.

Arthur's cock is pretty big as well. It's not something he brags about, but Francis knows it. That's probably the reason why the man kept coming back for a shag. He liked being filled, even if the dick was English. Arthur has never minded being the one to spread the cheeks and slam into a tight hole, but he has to admit that he was pleased to find that Alfred likes being on top. Surely they change positions, else would become boring, but as Arthur starts rubbing his swelling bulge, it's with the thought of the guy rocking his hips forward, feeding him his cock.

Arthur's still driving, but he slows down and allows himself to close his eyes for a second as he recalls the sight of Alfred's chubby cockhead. The dusky red, cut head with a fat vein leading down from it across the backside of his shaft. He finds it thrilling to press his lips to the sensitive vein to feel how the blood's pulsating through it as he follows it all the way down to his heavy balls. No matter how many times he showers a day, he'll still smell of sweat at the base of his cock, and Arthur will likewise always lap his tongue across the pubic hair to catch the flavour of man. He licks his lips and slips his hand further down between his legs to rub against his sack. He had almost forgotten how much he liked Alfred's cock filling up his little mouth. Not that he calls it little himself, but Alfred does. Arthur has found out that he has a size-kink. The narrower he can make his throat seem and the more painful a look he can force into his eyes while sucking off the man, the better Alfred finds the blow.

Arthur shortly snickers and forces himself to quickly look at the road before he disappears back into his thoughts. Actually his mouth is pretty wide, but when he sucks in his cheeks to squeeze down at the golden shaft, or when he tries to breathe through his nose while blowing and thereby makes his throat tighten up, he truly seems little, and Alfred's cock seems impressively big.

"And you like that, don't you?" Arthur whispered and rubs his crotch. There's not enough friction. The fabric of his jeans seems thick, and he sighs annoyed as his fingers clumsily undo the button and zips the pants open. His damped briefs has wrapped around his cock, and he shortly looks down at the bulge. The line of his shaft is clear in the thin fabric, and it goes all the way up to his waistband from where his cockhead is peeking out. It's pink in colour. Alfred finds it strangely delicate because it's different from his own. When Arthur is on the verge of coming, his cockhead seems to turn blushing cherry, but never red. Alfred's, however, almost go brown, but that could be because he always tries to last longer than what's necessary. Arthur believes that he sometimes thinks he has some expectations to live up to because he's the younger one in the relationship.

"But that's just dumb," Arthur mumbles and runs his palm flatly across his cockhead, pressing it back up against his soft belly. "I _like _that you're young." Arthur smiles smugly. He truly does. If Alfred has a size-kink, he certainly has an age-kink. He didn't discover it until Alfred sucked him off in his room one day. Looking at all the posters of young pop-stars whom he didn't knew the name of, and feeling the soft material of Alfred's Superman-shirt underneath his fingers, he realised that they were truly from different centuries. And that realisation made him cum right away, straight down the poor lad's throat. He'd promised the guy not to do that, because they had just started dating at that time, and he was still insecure when it came to sex. But what's a man to do?

Arthur chuckles, but then he swears underneath his breath as he has to stop for red. There are no cars to stop for. Impatiently he rocks back and forth in his seat until he can drive on, and once again he lets go of reality.

With Alfred he sometimes forgets all about this reality existing. Not because he is swooned away, because nothing about Alfred really makes him go crazy like a schoolgirl in love. Rather he just enjoys his company in a way that he doesn't enjoy anyone else's and the guy is always so horny that he doesn't have to make up excuses for his sexualised mindset. Francis is one to go and show off, but in the end he just wants love and romance. Arthur, on the other hand, loves sex because of sex, and not because it is a symbol of something greater. Alfred gets that. He's always up for a quickie up against the wall or a suck on the sofa or rimming across the kitchen table. And the lad rims like a dream! Arthur grips at his underwear and pulls them down to unwrap his cock. The hard member jumps up and wobbles a bit as he gives it a push. It wants all of what Arthur has just thought about. Maybe especially the rimming. Sometimes it's almost too good. Arthur can sit across of Alfred's face and rub down onto his tongue as the wet muscle penetrates him thoroughly, and he can cum two times in a row doing that without Alfred giving up on trying to make him see stars a third time. He knows how to drive him crazy. He angles his head perfectly and rubs around the ring of muscle until it gives in, and then he simply plunges deep into him, tasting and filling him, making him wet and needy for his cock, because a tongue is never enough.

Thinking about it, Arthur concludes that he's rather spoiled. Most of the other nations seem to get lost in a routine. First they kiss, then they undress, then they suck cock, finger-fuck, cock-fuck and come. And that's all there is to it. He's even heard of couples who have the same position every damn time. A shudder runs down his spine. The thought of always bottoming to Alfred and never getting the chance of shagging his tight hole seems so odd.

Arthur grabs around his cock and sighs in pleasure. His shaft has swollen with blood. When he drags his fingers up to pull at the foreskin, precum wets his tips, and he swiftly moves his hand up and slips his tongue out to get a taste. Salty. Alfred's precum always tastes dark and richly of coffee. Maybe that's why he likes his cum better. It's thick, warm and spicy. He grabs around his cockhead again and runs his hand around the knob, dragging the foreskin with him. He has to keep his eyes on the road, but it's straight and boring compared to his thoughts. He peeks down and shortly drags his foreskin all the way down, exposing his head fully. He can see how the precum keeps oozing out of the opening, and he takes in a heavy mouthful of air through his nose, his nostrils widening. He can smell sex in his car now. The bitter stink of plastic and musty sweat from the seats has been drowned out by the smell of himself. He leans a little forward and takes in yet a breath with a sigh. His hand on the wheel slips, and he groans out surprised when the car starts swinging, and he has to let go of his cock to regain control.

"Fuck!" He turns his head at the sound of a horn beeping. Another vehicle has come onto the road with him, and he didn't even notice. The big truck is driven by a guy with too much hair on his head, and he's yelling from the driver's seat, clearly upset that Arthur can't drive properly. Arthur feels his face heat up in embarrassment, and he tries to curl together on the seat to avoid showing his erection and his red face. He shortly waves at the man as if to apologize, but the guy just shakes his head and speeds up. Soon he's in front of him and slowly disappearing in the horizon. Arthur shakily breathes out and leans back into his seat. "Fuck…" he mumbles again, but this time a bit more quietly. To his own surprise he's still rock-hard. He tries to ignore it for a few seconds, and he turns off the radio to try and concentrate a bit more. But his cock won't let him.

Alfred never lets him concentrate on anything either. He's a damn child in that way. Whenever Arthur's busy trying to control his orgasm and the other's body at the same time, Alfred will suddenly lean in and start to whisper dirty things in his ears. He's even good at it. He knows exactly what will turn him on in any given situation. Sometimes he plays the rough, handsome, military-kind of guy and tells him to hold it, asks him if he's a weak whore who comes as soon as he gets a cock up his ass, calls him a slut and lets him know just how much he has to like his cock. Other times he gets descriptive. He starts speaking of how good something feels, or how fat his cock is, or how many times he's masturbated since their last fuck because he just couldn't hold it. And then there's the few times when he gets all submissive and pleads for getting filled, lets him know just how much he needs a fuck, how much Arthur turns him on, and he begs him not to stop doing whatever he's doing. Arthur reaches for his cock again, hesitates, but both hands on the wheel and then shakes his head. He can't stop his fantasies now.

"It's alright," he mumbles, "if I get off now, I can finally concentrate on the drive." With that settled, he reaches for his cock again and starts to stroke it rather harshly. He pumps at the shaft to quickly get to an orgasm, but this time he makes sure to keep checking the side-view mirror and the road in front of him. He doesn't want yet a surprise.

Alfred surprised him recently with a phone-call. Arthur likes getting calls from the lad, because normally all he gets is a text message, and they just seem so impersonal. Back when they stayed in touch through letters, it was all very personal and lovely, and he still remembers the joy in having a filled pillar box. They weren't together back then, but he liked Alfred's letters anyway. They had a certain randomness to them which just was so typical of him. Within one sentence he would complain about his brother, praise a new dish he'd tasted and ask for help concerning something. But in his text messages, he just writes to say hello, or how are you, or, even worse, please forward this message within three days or a ghost will come and eat you. So phone calls are nice and different, and especially this last one had been very pleasant. It started out pretty commonly; he wanted to say hello, he'd just eaten some spicy stuff and was feeling a bit odd, and Arthur told him to drink some water and go lie down. That's when it all turned upside down.

"If I lie down, will you lie down with me?" Alfred had asked.

"Excuse me?"

"I will lie down with you," Alfred had continued, and then he'd purred: "I bet you're wearing your thick sweater. Imagine my warm, big hands slipping up underneath it and across your stomach. How does that make you feel, babe?" Arthur had skipped through his living room and into his bedroom to continue the conversation. Alfred was the master of dirty-talk and phone-sex. Rather impressive. Arthur slips his hand down his shaft and to his balls to roll them in the palm of his hand as he tries to recall all the things Alfred promised to do to him the next time they would meet. Since they hadn't seen each other since the conversation, this evening had to be the one which Alfred would spend on pleasing him. He shudders and groans at the thought. Is this why he filled the fridge with whipped cream yesterday?

Arthur is feeling dizzy. His cock is frantically pulsating in his hand, and he rubs it, wets it with his precum and drags it around, trying to make himself come. It's not just about driving properly anymore, it's about him being in need and actually wanting to finally shoot his load. As a spot in the horizon, he recognises the truck. It has stopped for red, and he will soon reach it. Either he has to pack himself away and make sure he won't drive straight up the driver's ass (not literally, of course; the thought of that filthy, dirt-filled hole doesn't make Arthur's need to come greater), or he has to come soon. He prefers the latter. His hand starts working more furiously, and he slows down as he almost abuses the brake with his foot. "Alfred, Alfred, Alfred," he whispers to himself to help the orgasm come along, and he can feel his whole body heating up as he can now imagine the guy clearly. It's as if he's sitting next to him!

If he was sitting next to him, what would he do? Arthur imagines grabbing the young lad's hair and ripping his head down to his lap. His precum goes wild at the thought, and he can feel it drip down onto the seat. Fuck it. He'll buy a new car if this one starts to stink. Or he'll make it a sex-car. A car he'll drive whenever Alfred comes over, and he'll have him suck him off all the time while driving. "Good boy," Arthur purrs as he imagines the youngster sitting between his legs, his back awkwardly bended to make his muscular body fit in underneath the steering wheel. He imagines how his strong fingers grip around his hips, dig into them and almost rip up his smooth skin. He imagines how Alfred engulfs his cockhead with a pleased look in his eyes, and how he hungrily goes down on him, swallowing him whole. Arthur closes his eyes. He can almost feel it. Feel the struggled breathing from Alfred when he fills up his throat, and if he reaches down, he can pretend that he's touching his neck which his shaft is making bulge weirdly. "You're such a nasty man," he whispers and squeezes around his cockhead, "a true fucker. Ngh..!" Arthur slams his head back against his seat, and he lets go of the wheel fully as he grabs himself with both hands and comes. It's as if his whole body tightens up for a few seconds and then relaxes as the sperm shoots out from his opening and down his hand and onto the black wheel from where it starts dripping. Arthur gasps in air and gives one of his hands a long lick to savour the taste. "Good boy," he mumbles again and grins.

Someone honks their horn. Arthur wakes up from his thoughts with a cry and grabs at the wheel, ready to drive into a pole to avoid any accident with another car. But he's not behind the truck anymore. He's driven right through a green light, and he's looking at the empty road in front of him. Again he hears beeping, and as he realises from where it comes, his whole face goes red. Slowly he peeks to the side, and surely there's the truck driving next to him, the driver looking out his window and down at him. He grins and gives him a wave with his hand. Arthur flustered hides his cock away in his underwear and zips up. The man honks again. He shows him his middle finger and speeds up to get away from him. He checks the side-view mirror, worried that the guy might've gotten angry and will now follow him, but the truck disappears behind him as he turns around a corner. He sighs out, slips back up against his seat and looks at the wheel. His fingers have a strong grip around it, and everything would be normal if it wasn't for the sticky sensation of cum underneath the palms of his hands. He considers moving them to wipe it off in his pants, but somehow he finds it pleasant. Dirty, but pleasant. If he doesn't wipe it off, Alfred will notice and ask him about it, but maybe that's what he really wants him to do. Ask him what has been going on, and when he finally gets the story, he'll start calling him a dirty man. But he'll also get horny, and maybe that'll make him suggest that they suck each other off in one of the toilet stalls at the airport. Arthur likes to think that that's what will happen, because now he really needs Alfred's hands all over him, but it would be nice if the lad was the one to ask. Because then he could sigh, act as if he's not sure he's up for it, but in the end follow him. Maybe he can even persuade him that now they're in a stall anyway, a fuck would be good.

Arthur swallows at the thought of having sex at such a public place. His cock twitches in his pants, and he slams his hand down onto his thigh. There's still one hour of driving left. Arthur turns on the radio, zips his pants open and checks the side-view mirror. The truck is behind him again. He slows down. "This is for you," he mumbles and unwraps himself with a smug smirk.

**Note: **I hope you enjoyed!


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